


Business Relations

by dragonspell



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot tries to remind himself that he’s done worse for a job.  But he's never quite done <i>this</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Relations

Fingers tangle in his hair and Elliot takes a deep, stabilizing breath. It’s just part of the job. It’s all just a part of the job. He tries to remind himself that he’s done worse, done more, but it’s nearly drowned out by his pride. Because he’s never quite done _this_. But, then again, he’s never worked with a man quite like Damien Moreau.

Eliot’s on his knees in front of Moreau, supplicating himself to the man’s desires, to his whims. Moreau’s always been known to be a finicky bastard and Eliot should have known that something like this would come up. He’d certainly heard enough here and there, on other jobs, from other men who had worked for Moreau. Who’d worked with men who had worked with Moreau. Eliot should have known that the easy, busy work retrievals were just that: busy work. Moreau’s been testing him. And this is just another test.

This is just what whim struck him today. This is what he wanted. It might have been worse. This is nothing.

The tile’s hard and unforgiving beneath Eliot’s knees, the dampness of the Moreau’s private sauna’s sweat soaking into his clothes, making them cling to his skin. And the only thing even remotely good about right now is that at least Moreau was willing to do this in here and not out in the main pool area. Not in front of the rest of his men.

Eliot wouldn’t have been able to do that. He wouldn't have been able to hit his knees with all of them looking on, leering at him and elbowing each other while cracking jokes at his expense—about how easy he is, how “eager.” Eliot’s pride would have stopped him, his self-survival instinct. He knows that Moreau’s well aware of that—that there’s no way that Eliot would be able to do this in front of any of the men out there and let them live afterward. Moreau would know that Eliot would have no choice but to kill them all. Just to prove a point.

But that’s not what Moreau asked for because this isn’t about humiliating Eliot: It’s about humbling him. It’s about letting Eliot know who’s in charge. It’s about Eliot earning Moreau’s trust.

Eliot can do this.

Moreau’s smile is all soft understanding, only slightly mocking, like maybe he’s only inviting Eliot to have a drink with him instead of all but ordering him to suck some dick. Eliot swallows hard as he stares at the dark blue robe and the hips that he’s on eye level with. The cloth’s embroidered, the robe tailor-made because Moreau is just that kind of guy. Even his bathrobe reeks of money. It probably costs more than Eliot spends on clothes in a year.

Moreau’s fingers tug on his hair, pulling him forward as Moreau mutters something about how he “appreciates” Eliot’s long hair, how it’s “so nice of you to grow it out for me….” The fingers comb through Eliot’s hair, tousling it, before urging him closer. Closer, closer, closer.

There’s no going back now. Eliot takes a slow moment for a slow blink, centering himself, and then moves forward, his hands rising to grip Moreau’s hips and the soft cloth of his robe. Taking charge the only way he’s able.

“That’s it,” Moreau says. “That’s it…”

Eliot doesn’t want to hear Moreau’s patronizing tone, he doesn’t want to hear his coaxing, and it’s already costing him enough to be here, in this moment, on his knees. He takes a hold of the only bit of control left to him in the situation and quickly unknots Moreau’s belt and parts his robe—the only thing that Moreau’s wearing—and grabs a hold of Moreau’s half-hard dick.

It’s big and solid and only getting bigger in Eliot’s hand. He circles the base, thumb and forefinger, and swallows the whole thing, putting in his mouth like he knows that he’s supposed to. Moreau’s breath catches, his hands clenching momentarily and his body jerking forward before he manages to get a hold of himself again. When he does, his grip relaxes, combing through Eliot’s hair again like he’s trying to be gentle. It’s belied by the fact that he’s starting to thrust—short, shallow little rocks of his hips.

The thrusting and the fact that he’s getting bigger inside Eliot’s mouth is enough to choke Eliot, kicking in his gag-reflex and Eliot has to pull back. He swallows hard, recovering, while Moreau fairly purrs. “Easy, there…” he says, petting Eliot like he would a favored pet. Eliot bites back a growl and swallows as much of the dick in front of him as he’s able, letting it sit heavy on his tongue while he sucks. “No teeth, now.”

Eliot concentrates on breathing, an easy in and out, determinedly trying to put mind over matter. He’s already on his knees. He’s already sucking Moreau off. The last thing that he needs to do is put himself in an even lesser position. He’s damn near at rock bottom as it is; there’s very little that he can do to get lower and letting Moreau dictate the terms would do just that.

He can taste Moreau, can smell him, and the whole damn situation makes him want to gag, makes him want to puke all over Moreau’s fancy tile but he knows better. He’d got to make it through this. There’s no other choice.

And maybe this will be good enough to prove himself. Maybe after this Moreau will see fit to stop playing the games and start getting serious.

“There’s a good boy,” Moreau says, his hands tightening. “There’s a very good boy…” He’s breathing deep and measured, making sure that he makes this last. Bastard. He’s still thrusting into Eliot’s mouth, trying to show his dominance, trying to make Eliot submit.

It’s not going to work. Eliot might be on his knees, he might be letting Moreau fuck his mouth, but that doesn’t mean that Eliot’s submitting. They are at a standstill.

It stays that way until long after Eliot’s knees go numb, until long after his mouth is sore and starting to go dry, until long after Moreau’s run out of his clever little insults and is starting to repeat himself.

Moreau doesn’t bother to let Eliot know that he’s ready to come—doesn’t want to, wants to catch Eliot by surprise—but Eliot knows anyway. It’s all in the way that Moreau’s hands seize in Eliot’s hair, in how he drags Eliot in as close as possible, nearly choking Eliot to make sure that he can’t get away—that he’ll be forced to take whatever Moreau wants to give him. Eliot grunts anyway and tries to pull away but Moreau just gives a huffing little laugh and then he’s shoving deep into Eliot, his dick pulsing and filling Eliot’s mouth, his taste tainting Eliot’s tongue.

It's bitter; he wants to spit it out. But he doesn't. Instead, he stops fighting—he’ll choke for sure if he doesn’t—and focuses on swallowing, resigning himself to this. At least until Moreau pulls him off before he’s finished, the last few drops splattering across Eliot’s face, making him flinch involuntarily. Moreau chuckles and rubs himself against Eliot’s lips, smearing the last of his come against Eliot’s closed mouth.

“So well-trained…” Moreau says, his voice full of degrading, patronizing affection. “My well-trained…dog.” He gives Eliot’s hair one last fond caress and then he’s letting go and stepping back, rearranging his robe around himself. He knots the belt and smiles down at Eliot who’s still on his knees, knowing better than to get up without permission (he didn’t go through all of this for nothing). “Well, Eliot,” Moreau says. “I think we can work together.”

Laughing to himself, Moreau leaves Eliot there, heading out into the main pool area of his mansion. Eliot doesn’t follow him, not right away. He wipes off his face and takes a moment to stare down at the floor, carefully sealing this all back behind one of the thick walls that he’s erected in his head. There’s no need to think any further than that.

Eliot joins Moreau by the pool soon, careful not to take too long doing so. He can’t have the other men thinking that something might have happened. He can’t have Moreau thinking that he might have gotten to Eliot. Because he didn’t. Eliot might have been on his knees but he’s not broken. He’s not rolling over and showing his belly. Moreau just thinks that he is.

That’s just fine.  



End file.
